How Draco Malfoy Learnt to Live as Charmed a Life
by khasael
Summary: Draco would swear he's the world's unluckiest person. Maybe the answer to his problem lies in Harry Potter, whose life is seemingly charmed. He resolves to stick as close to Potter as possible, in the hopes that maybe some of that luck will rub off.


**Title:** How Draco Malfoy Learnt to Live as Charmed a Life as Harry Potter, the Golden Boy  
**Pairing:** Harry/Draco  
**Rating:** PG (_maybe_ PG-13 for a few instances of the f-word)  
**Word Count** ~13,500  
**Warning(s):** fluff, a small bit of foul language  
**Betas:** the lovely **hanelissar** and my dear **mathsie**  
**Summary:** Draco would swear he's the world's unluckiest person. Maybe the answer to his problem lies in Harry Potter, whose life is seemingly charmed. He resolves to stick as close to Potter as possible, in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, some of that luck will rub off.

Disclaimer: This piece of fiction is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offence is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.

_Author's Notes_: Written for **tari_sue**'s prompt over at Round One of Livejournal's **hp_getlucky** fest. Winner of round one. 

How Draco Malfoy Learnt to Live as Charmed a Life as Harry Potter, the Golden Boy

Draco Malfoy was not a lucky person.

He didn't need anyone to point it out to him. It had been painfully obvious for years. It wasn't losing an object here or there, or never seeming to have tea in his cupboards when he really needed some, or not being able to find matching socks. It was losing his home, or watching his father go mad, or being told he had no chance to make his career aspirations a reality. And now, of course, it was working with—no, _for_ Harry fucking Potter.

"You understand your new assignment?"

Draco looked back at the Minister for Magic dumbly. Oh, he understood it alright, he was just having trouble _believing_ it. "You want me to work in the Auror department. As a secretary. Potter's secretary."

"_Auror_ Potter, Mr. Malfoy. You'll be assisting the entire department, but your primary responsibility will be making sure Auror Potter has what he needs to work his cases, and to ensure that his paperwork is not only filed correctly, but is, well, legible."

Draco wanted to ask why they couldn't just invest in quills that corrected handwriting like the spell-checking ones that had been popular when he'd been at Hogwarts. If Potter hadn't been so bloody good at his job, solving three times the number of cases the other Aurors managed, then he might not need someone to do all his tedious paperwork for him. Instead he just attempted a smile that felt stretched too tight across his face. "Yes, Minister." This was the last chance he had at the Ministry, and he knew it. He couldn't foul this up.

"I'm glad you understand. Now, collect your things from your former desk, and head to Level Two. You've been set a desk next to Auror Potter's, for convenience sake."

Draco stood as Minister Shacklebolt ushered him toward the door. He wished he didn't need this job. He wished that they would let him work in a department where he could be of actual use. As he made his way to the lift, he forced himself to stop gritting his teeth. If he kept doing that, he wasn't going to have teeth left. He couldn't change his lot, so he may as well suck it up and take it.

He didn't need to stop by his old desk. There was nothing there that was his. There was only a dingy, cracked coffee mug he'd inherited from the last person to use his desk, a pen that worked when it wanted to, and a few small objects that had outlived their use as Portkeys.

It was the blasted Portkeys that had gotten him into his current mess. He was just getting to the point where he was trusted enough to start setting some of them, having put in over a year in a position that was little more than a glorified mail-opener and file clerk. No, come to think of it, it wasn't even glorified. That was exactly what he'd been. The first eight Portkeys had been perfect—all set to standard, made one-way or round-trip, as each request form and approval had stipulated, down to the precise spot one requested to land. It was that damned ninth Portkey. The cowboy doll.

He'd programmed it for Paris, as the form had said. How was he supposed to know there was a Paris in Texas? The tiny 'TX, USA' had been all but invisible on the form. Thanks to some quite unhappy honeymooners, who had intended to have some sort of dusty theme-getaway, complete with horses and leather and Merlin knew what else, Draco was now _quite_ aware that there was indeed a Paris in the north-western part of the state, and that there were also a number of other cities named Paris in America, as well as two in Canada and one in Kiribati. Was it _his_ fault that he had assumed newlyweds would want to spend their post-nuptial celebration in France, especially when the specifications of the address were tacked on as an afterthought?

Yes, apparently it was.

The head of the Department of Magical Transportation, a fat, balding wizard named Jensen, had made it quite clear that if he'd had his way, Draco wouldn't be working for the Ministry in any capacity. He'd tried to argue that it had only been one error, but it hadn't done any good. As far as most of the Ministry was concerned, Draco had been a Death Eater, and that meant he was already walking a very thin line. And since the Portkey he'd managed to fuck up was intended for Jensen's niece and new nephew-in-law… Mentioning that perhaps, if it was so important, Jensen should have done it himself, or at least _checked_ it before it went out had quite possibly not been the smartest thing he could have done. Jensen had looked ready to have a stroke, but Draco knew he wasn't that lucky.

One stupid geographical mistake (and really, whoever had done the approval paperwork should be the one getting tossed the demeaning task of proofreading Potter's reports), and he was dangerously close to losing everything. What made it all worse was the fact that it was _Potter_ he would be working for. Not just an old rival, which he could swallow if he had to, but The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, The Boy Who Could Do No Wrong. Potter, whom Fate had decided to smile upon, while Draco lived under a bloody rain cloud.

Draco didn't know exactly what he'd expected to find when he walked into the Auror office, but it certainly wasn't this. He had thought maybe there would be action, or suspects being interrogated, or at least people moving about. This was…boring. People just sat in cubicles, looking through files or jotting notes. It was even less lively than the Portkey office.

"Malfoy?"

Draco turned his head to the incredulous voice at his left. Oh, perfect. Because if there was anything worse than working with Potter, it was having a daily dose of… "Weasley."

"_Auror_ Weasley to you, Malfoy. What are you doing down here?"

"It's alright, Ron. I'm expecting him."

Draco turned his head the other way, ever so slightly grateful to hear Potter's weary voice saving him from this conversation. "Good day, _Auror_ Weasley," he managed, striding toward Potter and his desk. At least, he assumed there was a desk there, underneath mounds of untidy papers. He took a deep breath. "Auror Potter."

Potter lifted his green eyes up from the paper he was doodling on. "You don't need to call me 'Auror' when you address me." A tired flick of a wand sent the paper Potter was working on to the top of a precarious pile. "Let's get to it, shall we?"

Well, at least he wasn't going to drag this out or rub Draco's nose in his new assignment. "Let's."

Potter stood and put an ink-stained hand on the top of a pile. "Kingsley tell you what you'll be doing?"

Hearing the Minister referred to so casually made Draco raise his eyebrows. But of course Potter could get away with that. Potter could get away with anything. "Assisting the office with secretarial tasks, but mostly focusing on making sure your paperwork is completed promptly."

Nodding, Potter gestured to the tallest stack of papers. Draco listened as he went about detailing the timelines of cases, which forms were required for which kinds of cases, where things were to be filed, and a dozen other details. It wasn't all that hard to comprehend, and didn't seem to be that difficult to accomplish, and yet Draco could tell it was the part of the job Potter loathed. Of course he did. How could he expect to act heroic and charming when stuck behind a desk? "Any questions?" he finally asked.

"Just one, and then I'll get to work: which is my desk?" Draco had despised his last jobs for the Ministry, and this new one wasn't looking promising either, but he was determined to do it well. He had to prove himself, now more than ever. The sooner he could get to work, the sooner he could do that.

"Oh, right." Potter flicked his wand again, and a pile of papers moved from the desk facing his onto another stack. Draco just nodded. He'd expected a desk alongside Potter's, not across from it. Now he'd be forced to look at him all day, a reminder that some people were luckier than they deserved to be, and that the world didn't like to make _everyone_ miserable. "That's it, right there. New forms are here," he said, as Draco's desk sprouted a (thankfully neat) stack of light blue forms. "And as for priority… Well, just pick up a file. It'll probably be best that way, instead of trying to make sense of my system."

Draco contained a smirk. This disaster area had a system? "Right." The desire to make a good impression overrode his displeasure over his situation. "Thank you." He sat and hastily grabbed a quill from the corner of his desk, carefully pulling a file toward himself.

Potter's eyes widened for a brief moment. "You're welcome. Um. Let me know if you need anything. Have any questions." Draco nodded acknowledgement, already intent on trying to decipher the haphazard notes on the light yellow page in front of him.

Draco didn't even look up hours later when he heard a throat being cleared across the desk. It took a certain amount of concentration to get through what Potter had written. "Yes?"

"Time to go home."

"What?" He looked up finally and saw through the window behind Potter that it was indeed after dark. "What time is it?"

"Nearly six. Most of the office has already left."

"Oh. I didn't realise. I was just…"

"Working, I know," Potter said with a little laugh. "You didn't even stop for lunch. In the future, make sure you do that." He gathered up his things and stretched. "Good night, Malfoy. I'll see you tomorrow morning." Without waiting for a response, Potter left, leaving Draco to blink tiredly at the amount of work on both desks. He'd not even made a visible dent in the paperwork.

With a tired sigh, Draco heaved himself up from the desk and replaced his quill in the appropriate place. The full bottle of ink in the corner caught the sleeve of his robes and he watched in horror as the dark black liquid soaked into the file he'd been working on, running across the desk and dripping onto his robes. A quick _Evanesco_, and the ink was as cleaned as it was going to get, though his navy robes would never quite be the same. Not that he expected any different.

An amused snort made Draco turn around, embarrassed. Weasley. "See something funny?"

"Just you, covered in ink. Good thing those files were unharmed, or someone'd have your head, I'm sure."

Draco clenched his jaw. He privately thought that Weasley was right about that. "Isn't it time for everyone to go home?"

"Auror office never closes, Malfoy. Dark Wizards don't work nine to five, and neither do we. There's always a few of us around." He gave a look that was probably meant to be meaningful, but Draco thought it just made him look constipated. "Constant vigilance and all. But you go ahead and go home. Secretaries don't have to worry about late night shifts. Just make sure you're back here in time in the morning. And don't forget to make the coffee and put the kettle on. You wouldn't want to start the day out the wrong way, would you?"

Draco kept himself from saying something he would regret. Well, something he would enjoy at first, but regret once it got him another negative mark on his file at the Ministry. Besides, Weasley had turned back to his desk, head bent over a stack of what looked like surveillance photographs. With a defeated sigh, Draco left the office for his tiny flat, where he could have dinner and a long shower before climbing into bed and starting his humiliating task all over again.

0—0—0

It appeared Weasley hadn't been joking about the coffee and the kettle. As soon as Draco was through the door, an irritated-looking witch with an eye patch flagged him down. "Oh good, you're here. Benson drank the last of the coffee, and I'm too busy with eyewitness interviews to fuss with it. Quickly, please," she said, gesturing and walking away with an empty mug.

Draco didn't know what to say. He grudgingly looked around. The Aurors all looked considerably busier today than they had yesterday. There was an electric hum around the place that reminded Draco of the feeling in the air during a lightning storm. It seemed best to act on the request and stay out of the way. After the coffee was brewed and the kettle was boiling, he stepped over to his desk as quickly and quietly as possible. Potter wasn't at his desk. But he had to have been here already, as there was an empty coffee mug that hadn't been there when he'd left the office last night.

With a sigh, Draco filled Potter's mug and placed it back on his desk. He hesitated for a moment. Did he take it black, or with cream and sugar? Oh, to hell with it. Potter could fix his own drink. Draco had work to do.

He was partway into the fifth file of the morning when Potter strode by his desk, leading a forlorn-looking witch out of the office. Draco waved his wand and reheated Potter's coffee. Whatever was going on didn't look good, and finding his drink cold probably wouldn't improve Potter's mood.

A moment later Potter was back at his desk, sinking heavily into his chair. Draco kept at his paperwork. After a moment, he looked up. He could feel eyes on him. Indeed, Potter was staring. "Did you need something?"

"Did you get me this coffee?"

"Oh. Yes. I made some for the office, and your mug was empty, so I thought…" Well, to be honest, he'd thought that it might be a way to get on Potter's good side. He couldn't afford a bad review, if there were in fact reviews to be had. He didn't finish the sentence, instead starting a new one. "I don't know how you take it, though, so I left it black. Is that a problem?"

Potter's worried look lifted just a fraction and he laughed. "No. I checked it for common poisons and other curses, but I couldn't detect any, and I just didn't know who'd left it."

"You thought I'd poison you?" Okay, so the thought wasn't completely shocking, given their history, but Draco was a little insulted, just the same.

"It's more of just a reflex, really. Check any drink you haven't seen poured, and even some of the ones you have, just in case. It's come in handy more than once."

"I see." He vaguely recalled a memory from their sixth year involving Weasley. Best not to press that one. "What's going on?" Draco gestured toward the door, where the witch Potter had escorted out was standing, signing some papers.

Potter removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "That woman's sister had sent her a distressing message by owl. When she went to go check on her, she found her sister dead. The few clues we've found so far don't look good. You'll see the paperwork."

"But you'll find whoever did it." It wasn't a question. This was Harry Potter. The appropriate criminals would see punishment. Draco knew it from experience.

"I told her I'd do my best." Draco snorted; of course he would. He couldn't do anything else, could he? "How is that funny?" Potter demanded, eyes flashing in a way that told Draco he was holding himself together better on the outside than he was on the inside. "She's just lost family."

"I didn't mean to imply that it was funny," Draco said softly. He tapped the largest pile of paperwork on Potter's desk. "I just meant that the sheer volume of cases you've successfully solved means she has a decent chance at getting answers. You're working the case. Her odds are good."

The violent fire in those eyes cooled quickly, replaced by something Draco had never seen there, something he had no name for. "Oh." After a moment, he got up and crossed the room to Weasley's desk, and Draco resumed his work. He did remember to eat something in the afternoon, this time, popping down to a nearby café for a plate of chips. He needed to start eating better, or it was going to catch up to him. But that took too much effort, and certainly too much time. Every moment he was away from the office was a moment Potter could be saving the world, resulting in more paperwork. On his way back to the office, Draco wondered how long he could feasibly work this job. If Potter continued as an Auror, that could be a long time. Especially as there was talk that he might become head of the department in two years' time, maybe less. Always assuming Draco didn't screw anything up and get sacked, that was. He couldn't count that out as an option.

Potter was nowhere to be seen after lunch, and Draco carefully set aside the files he needed his input on. He was (Merlin help him) getting used to Potter's handwriting, but there were still phrases he couldn't make out. Draco found himself harbouring a deep pity and empathy for all of their former instructors. If Potter had turned in essays like this, it was a miracle he'd earned passing marks. There were likely trolls with better penmanship. No, it wasn't a miracle, come to think of it. Simply Potter the Golden Child, skating by on charm, guided by the luck of the gods.

"How're you coming along?"

Draco jumped at the voice, sloshing tea on himself. "Perfect," he muttered. He'd managed not to spill the entire mug, but the form he was filling out was waterlogged, and he could see the ink running.

"Sorry," was Potter's sheepish reply. "Here, let me take care of that." With neither spoken word nor wand, the paper dried out, both tea and running ink vanishing. "I think I've just made more work for you. Sorry."

Sighing, Draco closed his eyes and counted to five. He'd almost been done with that form. And now it was wrinkled and smudged. "Don't apologise. It was just…"

"Bad luck?"

With a grimace, Draco nodded. "You could call it that. What is it you wanted?"

"Oh, er, I just wanted to know how you were coming along with the work. I know my writing's not the best."

A tired laugh escaped him before he could smother it. "Potter, to call your handwriting chicken scratch would be an insult to barnyard fowl." He clapped his hand over his mouth. Damn it. Insulting his superior was a sure way to get sacked.

Potter blinked at him, then let out a snort. Draco dared to look up. Potter didn't look anything near furious. In fact, a smile twitched at one side of his mouth. "Now _there's_ the Draco Malfoy I know. The polite, quiet thing doesn't suit you at all, you know." Pushing aside a stack of papers, Potter sat on the edge of Draco's desk. Draco was suddenly aware that it was dark, and they were alone in this part of the office. "I think we need to get some things straight."

Of course they did. Potter had much more power over him than Draco cared to admit. What he wanted, he would get. He always did. "Okay. Shoot."

"I know this isn't a job you wanted. I know what you really wanted to do was work as an Obliviator, or in the Potions Research and Development Department, and you were denied because of the Mark. I also know this job is your third and last chance here at the Ministry." Draco swallowed with effort. Of course Potter knew all these things. He was an Auror. And he had Draco in the palm of his hand. "So I know you'll listen to me, won't you?"

"Yes." It came out as a croak.

"Good. Then here's what I want." He was silent for a moment, and Draco thought that if he didn't hurry up and state his demands, the anxiety just might kill him. "I want you to relax."

"I'm sorry, what?" He must have misheard, or perhaps Potter had misspoken.

Potter's mouth twitched into the almost-smile again. "I said relax, Malfoy. I took a look at the paperwork you filed yesterday. It's all fine. Anal-retentive, maybe, but fine. Look, you probably think that with our history, I'm going to make life difficult for you. I have no intention of doing that. You're technically here to make my job easier. Just do your job, and I'll cut you more slack than anyone else in the Ministry has. You don't have to address me as 'Auror Potter.' You can call me Harry, or Potter, or whatever's comfortable. I'm not looking to get you fired. You don't have to be on your toes. Just be you. To be honest, I've missed the sarcasm. All I get these days are praise and grovelling. It gets old. Just nothing completely out of line, alright?"

Draco didn't respond. He felt as if someone had bashed him in the head with a brick; his brain might have been leaking out his ears. He'd finally had his last bit of bad luck—he'd gone mad. Well, at least that meant he wouldn't have to deal with reality anymore, it was for the best, re—

"Malfoy? You alright?" A scarred hand waved in front of Draco's face. "Did I break you or something?"

"You're serious?" It was the only thing he could really think to say, if this wasn't some hallucination.

Potter looked relieved. "I'm serious. That comment about my handwriting was well-deserved, and I can take a joke. Some humour, even your own personal cutting brand of it, would break up the heaviness in the Auror office now and then. I just wouldn't say things like that to most of the others. Aurors can be a twitchy bunch."

"I'm not surprised, given the way you people go through coffee."

With a laugh, Potter stood up. "See, that right there. I've actually missed that, which is probably the first indication that this job is getting to me. Now go home. I'll see you tomorrow." He sat back down at his desk and flipped through some fresh-looking notes.

"You're not going home?"

"No. I slept at home this afternoon. I'm here until just after midnight tonight."

"Oh. Well, goodnight, Potter."

"Night, Malfoy." With a little wave, Potter bent back over his work. All Draco could think was that he would wake up at any moment. He was convinced he had dreamed the conversation.

That was, of course, until he arrived home and realised he'd left his wand at his desk. Too tired to go back, and not looking forward to having to make Potter let him into the department, Draco cast a wandless _Alohomora_ and let himself into his flat. Just once, he wanted a bit of good luck. Was it too much to ask?

0—0—0

A week later, Draco walked into the office in a foul mood. He hadn't slept well at all. There had been dreams of him sitting at a desk, cloaked in a pink knit cardigan, wearing frilly socks, and getting people tea. He'd looked a bit like a distant cousin of his mother's. This stupid job. On top of that, he'd been splashed by a Muggle child on a bicycle shortly after stepping out of his flat. It hadn't helped matters.

"What's going on?" he asked the nearest Auror as he stepped inside. There was a group crowded around his and Potter's desks, talking excitedly.

The wizard gave him a look that said he didn't particularly like secretaries asking him questions. "Auror Potter's just solved the murder case from last week. The perpetrator was behind some of our other open cases as well." The wizard—Maltin, Mattle, something like that—sneered at him, a deep scar twisting his features into something quite disturbing. "Looks like you'll be up to your ears in paperwork all day."

"How's that any different?" Draco muttered, moving to start a fresh pot of coffee. He'd never once seen the thing remain full for more than five minutes. These people were ingesting their body weight in caffeine. It couldn't be healthy.

"What was that?"

Draco cleared his throat. "Nothing, sorry. Coffee?" He just wanted the group around his desk gone. He was just starting to see an improvement in the backlog of Potter's paperwork, and if what the other Auror had said was true, then he needed all the time he could get.

"Malfoy!" Potter waved him over, and Draco came as bidden. "Excuse me," he told the group surrounding him as Draco approached. "We have some things we need to discuss."

Draco watched a couple of people clap Potter on the back before they wandered away. "What is it?"

Potter flushed. "Nothing, really. I just couldn't find a way to escape everyone. How's your morning?"

"Nothing like yours has been, apparently. Congratulations on solving the case."

"Thanks, but I don't really deserve all the fuss."

"Right. How'd you solve it, anyway?"

"Got lucky, I suppose."

Draco gave a sigh. Of course. "Just luck, hm? You're the top-performing Auror because of luck?"

"I wouldn't say _that_," Potter said, with his eyebrows furrowed. "It takes a lot of hard work. Lots of chases, some duels, lots of putting together clues and conducting interviews. Everything just happened to work out this time. I went out to grab some coffee, since the pot here was empty—"

"You do realise you could have made some yourself," Draco drawled.

Potter laughed a little, looking embarrassed. It put a nice flush in his cheeks, Draco couldn't help but notice. "Ask anyone in this office—you don't want me to make coffee. It's not far from lethal. Remember how bad I used to be in Potions, before sixth year?"

"Vividly."

"Apply that same scenario to my coffee-making skills." When Draco went pale at the thought, Potter grinned. "Exactly. Anyway, I went out for coffee, and on my way back, I heard what sounded like struggling in an alleyway. When I went to investigate, I surprised Danvers—that's the bloke we caught—and he hit my cup and managed to scald himself. While he was caught off-guard, I disarmed him and called for backup. The man he was after told me what was going on, and after two hours of interrogation, Danvers confessed. It was all some old family vendetta thing. We didn't even need to use Veritaserum. And all the evidence backs it up."

"That has got to be the luckiest arrest in the world," Draco murmured. Only Harry Potter. If Draco had been in the same situation, he probably would have scalded _himself_ and been hexed—or worse.

"As long as we put a stop to those murders. There had been five. I just wish we'd solved it earlier."

There was unhappiness and regret in Potter's voice. Draco had no idea what to say. He was spared an exceptionally awkward silence when an interdepartmental memo swooped toward them and struck him just below the eye. "Bloody memos," Draco muttered, handing it to Potter. He felt only a little better seeing he'd crumpled the nose of the paper airplane. He watched Potter pull out a pen from his desk. He noticed that unlike other people, who often had a mix of pens and quills, Potter used only pens. Peculiar. "Wait, you're going to subject someone to your handwriting?"

Potter looked up from the note he was about to scribble on the bottom of the memo. "You have an alternative?"

"If it's not personal, I'll write it. Unless you think it might be too much of a shock to get a legible response back from you." This had nothing to do with getting into Potter's good graces. Draco simply couldn't help but feel badly for whoever was on the receiving end of that memo.

"It's personal, but not private. It's just to Hermione. She's on the fourth floor."

"So that was her behind the House Elf Rights bill last year," Draco mused. He'd had a feeling. "What did you want it to say?"

With a shrug, Potter pushed over the pale violet parchment, from which he'd already vanished the original text. "Just tell her that she heard correctly, and that I'll see her Saturday night."

Draco scribbled the quick response and sent the memo on its way. Fifteen minutes later another memo hit him in the back of the neck. "Bloody hell, is she _aiming_ these things?" He moved to hand it to Potter, then realised it was addressed to him. He opened it warily.

_Malfoy,_

Good to see you're still with the Ministry. On behalf of all of us who've had to put up with Harry's penmanship, thank you for accepting the job. It's nice to read a response without having to squint at it.

H. Weasley

"Weasley?" he murmured. "So she and the Wea—Auror Weasley are married, hm?"

"What?" Potter looked up over the stacks of paperwork between them. "Oh, yeah. They got married about a year after the war ended. Lots of folks did. Didn't _you_— "

"I'd rather not talk about it." That was _not_ a subject he wanted to discuss with Potter. Or anyone else, for that matter. Ever. He bent his head down over his work, and Potter seemed to get that he was serious enough. As he wrote, he thought about the note from Hermione. It would take some getting used to, thinking of her that way. She wasn't technically Granger anymore, and he couldn't very well call them both Weasley. At least her note had been polite. But what on earth had she meant by 'good to see you're still with the Ministry'? Did _everyone_ know about the screw up in the Portkey office? It was certainly possible. The gossip that flew around this place was unbelievable. But why would Hermione care? They hadn't spoken since Hogwarts. Maybe it was simply what she'd said—she, along with everyone else in the Ministry, was tired of being subjected to Potter's awful writing. Draco wouldn't be surprised.

The rest of the day, Draco tried to ignore the fawning and gushing over Potter. He had multiple notes, offers of being taken out to lunch, a small box of chocolates sent to him, and a request for an exclusive interview about the case with _The Prophet_. Potter didn't even ask Draco to respond to that one. He simply balled it up into a wad and got rid of it with an oddly satisfying _Incendio_. The more Draco watched him, the more he pondered Potter's luck, and the lack of his own good fortune. Maybe…maybe if he just kept close to Potter, some of that luck would rub off. It was worth a try. Things couldn't possibly get any worse, now could they?

~0~

"You're faster at that now."

Draco didn't even bother looking up from his desk. He was getting used to Potter randomly commenting on what he was doing. "Nothing short of a miracle that I can actually read your notes. I meant to ask you, though: Do you have something personal against commas? They exist for a reason. I now have depths of sympathy for Hermione Granger that I never thought I'd have. I'm certain it was her task to proofread your essays?"

"Yeah."

Without sparing a glance for his superior, Draco knew Potter was blushing. "Well, then, I do hope you thanked her adequately. Bought her a house, commissioned a golden replica of her, worshipped at her feet. That sort of thing."

"Is that what you think I should do for you? Worship at your feet?"

Draco did look up this time, dragging his quill across the paper. He cursed in his head and vanished away the last line of ink. "I didn't mean that."

Potter laughed. "I know. I'm just impressed you can get through it at all. Kingsley and Haverton have had me in their offices a half-dozen times apiece to lecture me on making an effort."

"Please, Potter. Please tell me this isn't you making an effort. I might cry." Draco sighed deeply. "You know, this just might be easier if we used a Pensieve. That way you wouldn't have to waste time jotting notes, and I wouldn't have to read your writing."

"That idea's not half-bad, actually," Potter mused. "But I can't see either the head of the department or Kingsley going for it. And I can just see your write-ups now: 'Potter and Weasley babbled about some nonsensical Auror thing while the suspect waited to attack them'. 'Potter disregarded the rules and punched his assailant like a true son of a Mudblood'."

"I don't sound like that," Draco said with a huff. "I haven't thought about blood purity in years. And have you really fought someone the Muggle way, as an Auror?"

Potter turned slightly red. "Maybe. My first month on duty. Got suspended for a few days. I've learned to control the urges."

Draco smirked. So Potter may have completed the three year training in something closer to six months, but he was still the hot-headed wanker Draco remembered from school. That was comforting, actually. This Potter who sat before him was kinder than he should be. It was good to know the old Potter was under there somewhere, even if he was repressed. "I suppose that's why I've gone unhexed this long. Good to know. I don't suppose—"

He was interrupted by Weasley rushing up to Potter's desk, holding a pink sheet of parchment. Draco knew that meant they had an assignment. Nine colours of parchment were used in this office, and the pink sheets always got everyone moving. "C'mon, mate. This one's time-critical."

Potter jumped up, wand already in his hand. He had unbelievably quick reflexes, Draco noticed. "What's it about?"

"Some missing children. Muggle children, out near Devon. Someone reported seeing something suspicious, and it might be linked to that experimental spells and potions thing from last month."

Weasley had barely finished the words before Potter was out the door of the office, leaving his partner to sprint after him. For just a moment, Draco had seen some of the intensity he remembered, the utter fury and indignation that used to fill Potter on a regular basis. Even he had felt a sick little jolt when Weasley had mentioned children and 'experimental' together, but Potter undoubtedly took it harder.

Draco didn't see either of them for three more days. He came in to the office, did his work, and left. On the third day, Draco found himself actually _missing_ Potter, though he wouldn't let himself admit it. With Potter, he didn't have to continually censor himself. It was nice to have someone to talk to now and then. He hadn't really had that in a while.

He was so focussed on his work that he almost missed the chime and announcement just before he'd planned to step out for lunch. He caught the words 'open to all Ministry employees' just before the message repeated, and made himself listen.

_In honour of next Week's Quidditch World Cup, the Minister for Magic has decided to give away an extra pair of box tickets. To win these tickets, please answer the following questions: Which foul was called the most often in the 1894 final match between the German National Team and the Spanish National Team, that contributed to Germany's victory over Spain, and how long did the game go on before the Snitch was caught? Please send all responses by interdepartmental message to Bertram Aubrey in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Quidditch Office. The first person to answer both questions correctly wins the tickets. This contest is open to all Ministry employees. Thank you for listening, and good luck!"_

Draco blinked for just a moment. He knew the answers for that. His grandfather Abraxas had mentioned being a boy and going to that match with his father. He'd been told that story dozens of times. Looking around the office, Draco could see a number of Aurors diving for parchment to answer the question. The Cup had sold out of tickets months ago. Finally finding a sheet of parchment with nothing on it but letterhead on Potter's desk, Draco scribbled the answer, folded the message into an airplane, and sent it on its way. How many other people in the Ministry really knew that the foul had been bumphing, or that the game had gone on three days, nine hours, and twenty minutes? He felt smug for the first time in ages. He had this.

When he came back from lunch, he found both Potter and Weasley milling about Potter's workspace. They didn't look pleased—well no, Weasley did, but Potter just looked confused. Draco wondered what that meant for their case. "Hello," he said cautiously. He hadn't forgotten the look on Potter's face when he'd darted out the other day.

"Sod off, Malfoy," Weasley said with a wave of his hand. "This conversation doesn't concern you."

"Don't start, Ron," Potter said, face still scrunched up in confusion. "Besides, maybe he knows something."

"Knows something about what?" Draco managed after a moment. He didn't know a damned thing about kidnapped children, especially not ones in Devon.

"These." Potter held up a pair of tickets. Quidditch World Cup tickets.

"Oh, sweet Merlin," Draco breathed. It couldn't be. "I might know something about that, yes." He had no idea why the Weasel looked so pleased, but he didn't really care. He was going to get to go to the Cup.

"You do?" Potter's face cleared. "Oh good. The letter says I won them for my entry in a contest, but I don't remember a contest. We've been gone for three days. I'm not complaining, of course, but there are all sorts of _rules_ with these things. I've been granted the time off without question. And they have an anti-scalping charm on them, a _strong_ one, so that only myself and a guest can use them. I just have no idea when I..." He stopped and frowned. "Malfoy? You alright?"

Draco was not alright. He'd had a moment where he'd experienced something near ecstasy when he'd seen the tickets. But as Potter had continued to speak, Draco had gone cold, then numb, and then hot. Of course. Because in no universe could something this good be allowed to happen to him. "There's been a mistake," he choked. "I entered with the correct answer."

"Like hell you did!" Weasley exclaimed. "These tickets are Harry's. The letter from the Minister says so."

"Wait, Ron." Potter looked directly into Draco's eyes for several moments. "What do you mean, you entered?"

"There was an announcement of a contest for them before I went to lunch," Draco said slowly, making every effort to sound reasonable and calm. He was familiar with the charm Minister Shacklebolt had likely used. Even if he proved himself correct, he still wasn't going to that game. The tickets would go up in flames if anyone else tried to use them. There was no way to change the permissions on the spell, once set. "It was a trivia question. I knew the answer, so I grabbed a piece of paper, wrote my response, and sent it in. I don't know why they would have..." And suddenly it clicked. "Oh."

"'Oh', what?" Potter looked at him inscrutably. Draco wondered briefly if this was the face he used when he questioned suspects and witnesses.

"I answered on a piece of parchment from your desk. With your letterhead. And enough people, the Minister included, know that I'm writing all of your notes for you. They just assumed that I was writing the answer for you."

"Of all the ridiculous stories," Weasley said with a roll of his eyes. "You don't actually believe him, do you Harry?"

Potter was silent for a moment more, stroking his thumb over the surface of one of the tickets. "Actually, I do. I think you could Veritaserum him all you liked, and not one word of his explanation would change."

Some small part of Draco was pleased to learn that Potter's Auror skills did not all appear to be blown out of proportion through legend and retelling. "You believe me?"

"I do. And I don't feel right about keeping these."

"Oh, Harry," Weasley groaned, looking like he was about to be ill. "You're not going to—"

"Go with me, Malfoy. These should be yours. I know I'm not who you would have liked to go with, but it's better than not going at all, isn't it?"

Draco gaped at him. Weasley muttered something and stalked off, likely irritated that his chance to attend had just gone out the window. "Are you serious?"

Potter nodded solemnly. "I am. It's the only way I can think of that you can still use your ticket. If you'd rather not, though, I understand. I'll have Kingsley destroy them, if that's the case."

"Don't be stupid," he managed to bark. "You can't destroy those tickets. They're box seats. For the World Cup!"

"So then you'll go with me?"

"Yes! I'd go with Weasley, if I had to. Or Filch, or whomever I needed to go with to get in."

Potter looked...that couldn't be _hurt_, could it? "Spending time with me would be like spending time with Filch?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "No, Potter. I actually think you and I could have a decent time together. Working with you has shown me how tolerable you can be, handwriting excluded. I just meant that I'd do whatever it took to attend."

"Oh." He seemed to consider that for a moment. "Alright, then. I'll let Kingsley know you're my guest, so he can approve your time off as well." He headed to the door, and Draco shakily sat down in his chair. He didn't know what to consider this new development. It was some odd hybrid of good and bad luck. On the one hand, those tickets should have both been his. He could have taken Blaise, or perhaps Pansy. On the other, Potter hadn't really _had_ to offer him that ticket. They'd been given to him, erroneously of course, but Potter had done nothing wrong. Draco knew that in another time, Potter would have gone with the Weasel, and no amount of logic or proof would have gotten him an invitation, and certainly wouldn't have caused Potter to feel guilty over the mix-up. Draco decided to call this one a draw. Either way, he was going.

0—0—0

A week later, Draco found himself sitting in a cafe in Italy, toasting Britain's World Cup win with Harry Potter. Though he had thought to order wine, or perhaps champagne, Potter insisted he only drank those things if he was on a date, and one that was going well to boot. So now Draco was on his third shot of Firewhisky; Potter was on his fifth. He was feeling quite warm, despite the cool summer night.

"Can't believe the way France just came out of nowhere after the second hour," Potter was saying, looking happily inebriated. "And then, when Eggleston fell off his broom, I thought it was over for certain."

"Yes, well, I had faith in Wickham. He's been nothing short of spectacular since he was drafted as Seeker. I _told_ you they'd win within six hours, didn't I?"

Potter nodded unsteadily. "You did. Which means these drinks are on me."

"If you don't sober up a bit and get a handle on your liquor, they will quite literally be on you," Draco laughed. "I didn't know you drank."

"And I didn't know you knew how to have fun," Potter countered. "Seems we both surprised one another."

"I suppose we did." Their waiter approached their table, and Potter ordered something in mangled Italian. Draco wondered if the butchering of the language was due to the alcohol, or just Potter's tin ear. They received a weary look and a nod in return. Draco laughed as soon as the waiter turned away. "Your Italian's awful."

"It's not perfect, but it's not that bad. Though I think I might have just ordered us things that weren't strictly drinks."

"You ordered us something that wasn't even Italian," Draco managed, wiping tears from his eyes. "I think he understood what you wanted, though. You'd better tip well."

"I always do." Potter calmed himself down after a moment. "I wanted to tell you that this has actually been a lot of fun. I never thought I'd luck into World Cup tickets out of nowhere. I suppose I have you to thank."

"Well, that's the kind of luck you have, isn't it? The impossibly good kind?"

"I don't know about that. We all have bits of good luck now and then, don't we?"

Draco snorted. "No. Not at all."

"What do you mean?"

"I do believe I might be the unluckiest person on the face of this earth."

"Oh, come off it," Potter said, eyes still shining bright with cheer. "It can't be that bad."

"Don't believe me?" Draco tried to fix Potter with a piercing stare, and was only somewhat successful.

"Not at all. Think you're really that bad off?"

"I know I am. I've always been unlucky. Let me reiterate some of the incidents you're familiar with."

Potter snickered. "Go for it, Malfoy."

"I was attacked by a Hippogriff."

"Hey now, that was your own fault. Hagrid told you not to disrespect Buckbeak, and you didn't listen. Besides, it was a scratch. And you played it up to get out of homework and a Quidditch match."

"It was more than a scratch, Potter, though I admit I might have exaggerated a _little_. Okay, next item. I was transfigured into a ferret. And not only that, I was bounced around and shoved down Crabbe's trousers. And before you go on about how that was just a bit of fun, I'll have you know I had bruises from that incident that didn't heal for almost a month. And I'll never forget being that intimate with Vince."

Potter's smirk faded just a little. "I didn't know about the bruises."

"Wasn't exactly public knowledge. Third. I got dragged into service for… Voldemort, because he thought it was the appropriate punishment for my father's failure." He still had a hard time saying that name. He didn't think he'd ever say it as casually as Potter did.

The smirk was gone now. "Right."

"Oh, but there's more. I've had my inheritance taken away by the Ministry as payment for war reparations. I've not been allowed to pursue any of my true career ambitions, only being able to find jobs I hate. And then there was that arranged marriage of mine. There was the humiliation of having my wife tell the press that the marriage failed because I couldn't get it up in the bedroom. Which, okay, may have happened, but that was only because I'm not interested in women, though my parents didn't care about that at all—they only wanted to rebuild the family name. There's a thousand tiny little bits of bad luck scattered throughout my life, but those are the ones you can't argue away. And now I sit across from you, where I have to watch you and see how perfect your life is." He took a deep breath. "Sorry. I didn't mean that last bit like that. It's just… It's hard to see how wonderful things are for you, when they're the opposite for me." He forced a laugh. His buzz had diminished significantly, but his cheeks were still hot. "Do you take a daily dose of Felix Felicis or something? Because if so, I think you should share."

That last comment finally put a little bit of a smile back on Potter's face. "I haven't taken any of that since Hogwarts. But if I had some, I might share it. You do seem like you could probably use it. But really, Malfoy, being lucky isn't all it's cracked up to be. I catch breaks more than I should, perhaps." He paused as Draco snorted again. "Oh, that's so attractive," he said with a little laugh. "But I'm serious. Besides, for me, it's more like 'lucky in life, unlucky in love'."

"You can't be serious."

"I am, though. I don't ever feel that I can trust relationships. I feel like I'm being used for something. Some of that might just be Auror paranoia, but it's also from past experience. I've had some absolutely awful girlfriends in the past…and then some awful boyfriends." He didn't seem to catch Draco's widened eyes at the last statement, though Draco lost Potter's next sentence or two as he processed the fact that Potter was apparently gay, or at least bi. The little bit of attraction Draco had been successfully squelching raised its head interestedly before he ground it under his heel again. "…And it's not like I had a childhood. I was just lucky enough to find some good friends."

"Yeah, lucky," Draco scoffed. He was trying not to notice how attractive Potter was when he was adamant. He was done with alcohol for the evening. Too much liquor always made him a little sex-crazed. His inhibitions were only a little too happy to be lowered. Ogling his supervisor, and Potter of all people, was a bad move. His string of luck already told him it meant nothing good could ever come from it.

"I mean it, Malfoy. There are things I'd like to do, like to be free to do, but I feel restricted."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing." Potter took a long drink of the ice water that their waiter had brought them. "Forget I mentioned it. You want to go for a walk? I'm not sober enough to Apparate back home, and those Portkeys back to London have a long wait. We might as well head over that direction now." He raised his eyebrows. "Oh come on. 'Portkey' isn't a dirty word."

"Might as well be."

"You're ridiculous, you know that?" With a shake of his head, Potter left money to cover their bill and walked out into the night, smiling when Draco caught up to him. Draco didn't respond. Ridiculous or not, he'd proved his point, and Potter knew it.

0—0—0

"Potter, if you're going to pace like that, could you do it somewhere out of my line of sight? It's distracting." He'd been walking back and forth like that for nearly ten minutes now, and every time he passed by, Draco found his eyes following the shadow of Potter's body. The office had been positively swamped with odd cases the last two days, and it was hard enough to concentrate. It had been two weeks since he'd learned Potter might actually be into other men, and that made his concentration falter at random moments. Draco had entirely too active an imagination.

"Sorry," came the muttered response. "It's just that I'm missing something, I know it. It shouldn't be this difficult."

Giving it up as a lost cause, Draco stood up and stretched. "What shouldn't be this difficult?"

"This case. There are all these things that look accidental, but I'm positive they're not. There are too many similarities. They all end up in St. Mungo's with memory problems, but they haven't been Obliviated. There are odd purple spots on the victims' necks and torsos." Potter went on to detail other peculiarities about the cases, but Draco was stuck thinking about the purple spots. It tickled something at the back of his brain. Something in conversation he'd had with Severus once.

"Do the victims have breath that smells like violet?" he blurted as the connection solidified in his mind.

"What?"

"The victims in St. Mungo's. When they arrive, is there anything about their breath smelling like violets?"

Potter's eyes widened. "There was something about a sweet floral scent on their breath, I think. Why?"

"Have you had them tested for a poison involving indigo root and essence of silverflower?"

"No, of course not. Didn't silverflower go extinct three hundred years ago?"

"Not exactly. It's rare, but you can find it, if you know who to ask, and have a fortune to spend on it."

Potter grabbed Draco's shoulders. "I think you might be onto something with this. You really _would_ have been good working with Potions." The light in Potter's eyes was fevered, his irises incredibly bright. "I've got to call St. Mungo's." He shook Draco's shoulders, and watched as Draco's wand fell out of his robes and hit the floor. "Sorry. I'll get that."

Draco shook his head a little as Potter bent down. He never thought he'd see the day when he actually contributed to an Auror investigation. He dared to smile just a little. And then he heard a shout from across the room, and his world exploded in a flash of agonising white light, a crunching sound drowning out all other noise, and suddenly, mercifully, there was darkness.

0—0—0

The first thing Draco saw when he opened his eyes was soothing green walls. He shifted just a little, wondering why he felt so restricted, and immediately regretted the movement.

"Oh, thank Merlin, Draco, you're awake."

Draco sank back down into the pillows under his head. That seemed to be where most of his pain was. "Why'd you call me Draco?" he asked with a tongue that felt clumsy. He thought he might be slurring his words.

"Because that's your name," Potter said, looking worried as he leaned over. "Did you hit your head that hard?"

"I know my own name, you wanker. I mean why'd you call me Draco? You never call me Draco."

"Oh. I don't know. Would you rather I not?"

"Call me whatever you want. Just tell me why I appear to be in a hospital."

"You got hit in the head with a tampered Bludger. Wescott and Lulban confiscated a set charmed to attack players who weren't looking. Someone's trying to sabotage the Cannons. One of the Bludgers got loose."

"And I was the lucky one to get struck." Why wasn't he surprised? With a wince, he adjusted his bed so he wasn't flat on his back. Once he was there, he doubted the wisdom of that act.

"Yeah. I feel really bad about it. It should have hit me, you know, but I'd bent down to retrieve your wand, and it sailed right over me." Potter was quiet a moment. "You'll be fine, though. Your skull should be healed in the next few hours, and they don't anticipate any long-term damage. I was worried for a while—it didn't look good."

"What, afraid you'd have to go back to writing your own reports again?" He tried to crack a smile, but his head was swimming. It was hard to focus, and he felt more than a little queasy.

Instead of the laugh Draco had hoped for, Potter just shook his head solemnly. "No. I actually thought for a moment that you might actually be right about your luck, and that maybe I was right about mine as well."

"Of course you were right about your luck. You didn't get hit; I did."

"Not that bit," Potter said quietly, twisting his hands together in his lap.

Draco wished someone would turn the light off in the room. The brightness was only making his head pound, which was causing his stomach to lurch. He tried to figure out what Potter meant by that comment. If he didn't mean his good luck, then that left his bit of bad luck. What Draco getting hit had to do with Potter's romantic life, he had no idea. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, fuck it," Potter muttered. Before Draco could ask what he meant by _that_ Potter had leaned over and placed his mouth on the corner of Draco's, leaving a light kiss before pulling away just enough to get a look at Draco's face.

Draco just stared at him for a moment before the sickening thudding in his head got the better of him and he was sick all over the front of Potter's robes. Draco didn't even have a chance to warn him. Potter bolted from the room, looking horrified. Draco vanished the mess as best he could with the wand Potter had left at his bedside table and clasped his hands lightly over the bandages covering his head.

Why couldn't that Bludger just have killed him and have done with it? As if the head injury wasn't enough, he had just vomited on Potter. That was humiliating enough, but he'd managed to do it after some insane urge had overcome the other man, leading him to kiss Draco, something Draco had been quietly trying _not_ to fantasise about for the last two weeks. The universe had spared him just that little bit of luck—the kiss—only to have his string of bad luck override it in quick fashion. He hadn't even had time to _enjoy_ the kiss. And now he'd have to face Potter in the office. He lay in bed, fretfully twisting the sheets between his fingers. This couldn't really be happening to him, could it?

0—0—0

Several hours later, after he'd finally been given permission to fall asleep, footsteps approached the door to Draco's room. He sighed. The Healer's apprentice, a petite witch named Sandy, had left less than ten minutes ago. Apparently, she'd been kidding about him getting rest. As Draco waited for the door to open, he heard yelling and shouting coming from a few rooms away. It didn't look like he'd be getting sleep anyway. Or maybe Sandy was coming back with a sleeping potion. He could hope, couldn't he?

When the door silently opened, spilling a crack of light into the dim room, Draco furrowed his brow. That wasn't Healers' robes covering the arm on the doorknob. When Potter stepped through gracefully, closing the door with no noise behind him, Draco squeezed his eyes shut. It had to be a hallucination.

"Hey." Potter's voice was quiet, and Draco forced himself to open his eyes. Surely his imagination wouldn't have put such an awkward-looking expression on Potter's face. "May I come in?"

Finding his voice, Draco tried to sound as casual as possible, as if he wasn't talking to the person who'd been covered in his sick. "I believe you're already in. What are you doing here, Potter? Visiting hours have long since ended."

"I know."

When there was no answer to Draco's first question, he tried another. "How did you even get in? Auror skills come in handy once more?"

Potter blushed, just barely visible in the darkened room. "Something like that. You don't become a successful Auror without learning how to enter a room unnoticed. Whatever distraction is going on at the end of the corridor helped. Someone's not having a good night."

Draco opened his mouth to say that he wasn't exactly having a good night himself, but thought better of it. "What are you doing here?" he tried again.

"I wanted to let you know you were right."

"I'm often right. Which instance do you mean?"

One side of Potter's mouth twitched upward. "You were right about the poison. The primary ingredients were silverflower, indigo root, and feverblossom. It explains the spots, the memory loss, and the convulsions. The Healers are working on antidotes, and the Ministry is trying to track down possible sources of the silverflower."

"You sneaked in here to tell me I was right about the case you couldn't figure out?"

"Well, no, but I thought you might like to know."

"Then why _are_ you here?" Draco didn't like games. If Potter was going to ask him to find a new assignment, he should just come out with it. He couldn't stand being embarrassed like this, and he couldn't escape. He was, once again, at Potter's mercy.

"I wanted to apologise for earlier. I'd seen the way you looked at me one day, and I thought that maybe it was time for my luck in that one department to turn, but obviously I was wrong, and I made the wrong assumption. There's nothing to tell you your romantic advances aren't wanted like someone getting ill because you kissed them. I just wanted to say I'm sorry for my actions, and say that I hope we can still work together." Potter looked more uncomfortable than Draco had ever seen him, and for just a moment, he enjoyed the feeling of having the upper hand.

"You're wrong."

Potter looked absolutely crestfallen at Draco's words. It wasn't the reaction he'd been hoping for, and he didn't enjoy it. Funny, since he used to love seeing Potter look upset. Merlin knew he'd spent enough energy thinking up insults to try to make him look that way. 'Scarhead' had certainly been one of his most uninspired attempts. "I understand. I'll speak to Kingsley, see if there isn't somewh—"

"You misunderstood me," Draco said, attempting to get control of the loopy feeling in his stomach. Potter wasn't upset that his robes had been defiled. Well, he was, but not for the reason Draco had expected. "For an Auror, you jump to an awful lot of conclusions. You're wrong about me not wanting to work with you. You're _also_ wrong in that your advances were unwanted. What happened after you kissed me was pure coincidence and timing. Just further proof of my bad luck."

The smile that slowly cracked Potter's face was radiant. "You… It wasn't… You didn't mind?"

"I more than 'didn't mind', Potter. If I hadn't been feeling so poorly, I think I might have enjoyed it."

"Then if it's okay with you, I'd like to try again."

When Draco didn't object, being unable to form words through his shock, Potter leaned forward and gingerly ran his fingers through Draco's dishevelled hair, exposed now that the bandages had been removed. Draco's breath hitched as Potter's tongue darted into his mouth and he surrendered to the first real bit of pleasure he'd had in far too long. He wondered how Potter would take it if Draco twisted his fists into the deep black Auror robes and pulled him onto the hospital bed.

His eyes snapped open and he pulled away from Potter as he heard a voice approach the door, growing louder by the second. "Fuck," he whispered, trying to slow his heart rate and look as if he hadn't been busy snogging his supervisor…who really shouldn't be here at this late hour, come to think of it.

Potter froze as well, looking nearly as panicked as Draco felt when the doorknob twitched as someone rested their hand on it from the other side. Draco was torn between hyperventilating and holding his breath, and then something at the end of the hallway exploded, and there was more yelling, and whomever had been outside the room stepped quickly away.

"Well, if _that_ wasn't lucky, I don't know what is," Draco whispered, realising that he actually did have Potter's robes clutched in his fist. With effort, he unclenched his fingers, smoothing the creases he'd squeezed into the robes.

"Luck is what you make of it," Potter whispered in return. "Let go of your determination to be miserable, and your luck could change." He cut off Draco's objection with another lingering kiss. "Be open to the idea, won't you?" With that, he ducked out the door, slipping away unnoticed once more.

0—0—0

Three months after the Bludger incident, Draco grudgingly admitted to himself that perhaps Harry had been right about all the bad luck. Afraid that admitting to their relationship would get him sacked, Draco had pulled Potter aside and asked that whatever this was between them, it be kept casual and private. Potter had agreed with a quiet nod, that impenetrable face in place one more. Draco had sighed with relief. He _did_ fear for his job, and an end to his chances at the Ministry, but even more than that, he worried that openly acknowledging this development between them would only anger the gods of luck and fortune, and he'd find Potter and the bit of happiness he brought with him ripped cruelly away. He just couldn't tell that to Potter, because…well, because that would be acknowledging it, and that was tempting Fate more than Draco cared to do.

Over time, all of the little things that seemed to go wrong had tapered off. He no longer found that when he went to the shop in search of a particular item, the witch in front of him had snagged the last one. Strangers stopped spilling their drinks on him with regularity. When caught in a sudden downpour, a kind-looking older wizard offered him the use of an umbrella until they both reached the Ministry. He didn't tell Potter about any of these things, because Potter would gloat, and things had the potential to return to the way they had been at any moment.

He stumbled into the office five minutes late one fall morning, missing the way that Weasley, Benson, and Mattlin stared at him as he put on the kettle and refilled the coffee pot.

"What happened to you?" Potter asked sharply as Draco sat at his desk.

"Hm?" Draco was dazed enough that it took him a moment to look up from the file he'd just grabbed. It was a spectacularly unusual morning, and he was still processing everything that had happened on his way to work.

"You're bleeding. And you _never_ come into work with your hair mussed."

Draco couldn't tell if Potter sounded more suspicious or worried, and after a moment, he lost his argument with himself and found he was telling Potter everything. "I sort of foiled a criminal on the way in."

"You what?"

The look on Potter's face was priceless, as if he was trying to picture Draco as an Auror and failing miserably. "It was an accident. I was leaving my flat, thinking that it was a nice enough morning and I could just walk instead of Apparating, and I tripped."

"More of your bad luck?" Potter still teased him about it, but more gently than he used to. He hadn't really had any heart in the taunting since the night of the World Cup.

"I don't know. I thought so, but as I fell, I slammed into someone and sent them sprawling. I guess that's when I cut my hand," he said, noticing the wound for the first time. "It turns out the person I knocked over was running away from the Muggle police force. He'd stolen some woman's purse. But when he fell, it got up without it. They got him less than a hundred metres later."

"You foiled a purse-snatcher?" Potter looked amused. "When you tripped."

"I did. And after I answered the necessary questions, the woman called me a hero." It still hadn't sunk in. It was the nicest thing anyone had really said to him after the war, and he didn't really deserve it, but she'd sounded so sincere that Draco couldn't help but feel warm and soft inside.

Potter favoured him with a friendly smile, his green eyes bright and sincere. "And to her, you are. You know, Malfoy, that sounds like some awfully good luck." He reached for Draco's hand and murmured an _Episkey_, squeezing lightly as he let go, casual enough that no one else would notice the gesture.

"Perhaps. But not quite as lucky as catching a murderer because you have a need for coffee."

"Touché."

Draco smirked and sat back down. He'd taken to watching Potter more and more during the work day, sneaking in little glances here and there. He'd yet to be caught at it, which might—but might not—have been an indication that his bad luck had slunk away with its tail between its knees. Not even Potter seemed to notice. Draco wondered if there was a way in which the casual arrangement they had could ever be…less casual. He let himself fantasise about it briefly while Potter was at lunch, but smothered the idea an hour later. It was probably best to leave things as they were. This was safer.

0—0—0

Draco was on his way back from lunch later that week, daydreaming happily. It was an activity he'd only recently allowed himself. In the past, daydreams had led to more bad luck being heaped upon him, but now he seemed to be able to go unpunished. He couldn't complain. In his daydream, he and Potter were out to dinner, smiling at each other over candlelight and holding hands on the tabletop. It was nothing like their occasional lunches, caught in pubs or cafés or chip shops, where they still called each other 'Malfoy' and 'Potter'. In this daydream, they were simply 'Draco' and 'Harry'. Potter slipped now and then at the Ministry, using Draco's given name, but Draco had never made a similar mistake. Their first names were only to be used in the privacy of their own homes, during the few stolen hours they were able to find. It was a shame, but for the best.

He was jolted out of this admittedly sappy daydream when he heard a plaintive 'meow' at his feet. He looked down and saw a pathetic-looking kitten twining its way around his ankles. He tried to shoo it away, but the cat was having none of it. And he was getting fur on Draco's trousers. "Go back to your owner," he muttered, flailing his hands in a last attempt. Every time he tried to walk away, the kitten would wind itself tighter in figure eights around Draco's ankles. This was getting him nowhere.

Feeling like a fool, Draco knelt down. "I'm headed to work. Please go home." He wondered briefly if this was someone in Animagus form, playing with his head. Did he know anyone who looked like a Siamese kitten? No one came to mind. The kitten meowed again, sticking his head under Draco's limp hand, petting himself enthusiastically. Draco sighed and shook his head. A bit of bright yellow paper caught his eye. _LOST KITTEN_ was the first line, and he rolled his eyes when he saw that the thing scratching himself was the same kitten in the photograph. "Of course," he murmured. He took a closer look at the poster. Missing for three days, to an owner only two streets away.

With a sigh, he picked up the kitten. Apparently being petted was one thing, but being carried was quite another. The farther he walked, the more the kitten fought him. When he approached the front door of the flat listed on the poster, it opened just in time for a young witch of ten or so to hear Draco yowl as the kitten sunk its back claws into his stomach, and its teeth into his hand. She ignored his cry of pain, eyes fixated on the ragged ball of fur in his arms instead. "Fluffy!"

Draco thought about mentioning how unoriginal the name was, but decided against it. "I take it this is yours?"

"You found him!" the blonde child exclaimed, blue eyes shining up at him. "I thought he was gone forever! Thank you! He was my birthday present!" She was looking at him much the same way the Muggle woman who'd called him a hero had.

Trying not to blush over something so ridiculous, he cleared his throat. It was harder than it usually was. "You're welcome," he said, a wheeze creeping into his words. "I'm glad to help. Now please excuse me; I'm on my way to work."

"Wait!" The girl put the kitten down and ducked inside the flat, and Draco eyed it suspiciously, afraid it would make a break for it, and he'd be stuck chasing it down. When she returned to the door, she was holding a smallish box. "I can't offer a real reward, because I've spent my birthday money, but I want you to have this."

"That's very nice of you, but I can't—" he began.

"Yes, you can," she said very firmly, and Draco was briefly reminded of himself at that age, the strong sense of 'I don't care how young I am, you will listen to me' unmistakable in her voice. But then she added a 'please', something he never would have done, and thrust the box into his hand.

"Uh, thank you," he said after a moment. "Take care of your kitten." He wandered back onto the street as she shut the door, kitten definitely inside the home. Once back in the sunlight, he took a look at what she'd handed him. It was a small golden Honeydukes box filled with chocolate coins. There were raspberry-filled dark chocolate Galleons, strawberry and milk chocolate Knuts, and his personal favourite, white chocolate and lemon Sickles. He gazed at the sweets in wonder. They were new, fresh. But Honeydukes had discontinued them when he was eight years old. He'd thrown an epic tantrum when his mother had told him. He turned the box over, afraid it would disappear in his hands. In tiny black printing he saw the words 'back by popular demand'. He clutched the box to his chest with hands that were red and swollen, hurrying to work.

"_Now_ what's happened to you?" Potter asked when he sat down at the desk across from him. "You look like you've lost a fight with some animal."

Draco laughed a little. "That's pretty much what happened. I returned a lost cat."

"You don't happen to be allergic to cats, do you?" Potter asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Some cats. Why?"

"Because your face is swollen and so are the gashes on your hands. And are you the one making that squeaking noise?" Potter rolled his eyes. "Go see Miriam. She always has a bottle of quick-acting allergy antidote in her desk. She's allergic to Kneazles and Crups. But ask nicely."

"As if I'd be anything but polite," Draco huffed. Well, it was an attempt at a huff. It was surprisingly hard to do while wheezing. His lungs felt like they were filled with cat hair.

He came back a few moments later, breathing clearly. The swollen scratches on his hands and forearms were slowly flattening out, losing some of the violent red colour. He recounted the tale to Potter as he filled out forms. It was a testament to how good he was feeling that he not only let Potter have one of the candy Sickles, but he even let Weasley snag one of the Galleons without much protest.

It seemed nothing could foul his mood. When another of Hermione's interdepartmental memos struck him at the nape of the neck, Draco shrugged it off and handed it to Potter. As an afterthought, he added a postscript, asking that she take care to improve her aim in what he hoped was a joking manner. He pondered this new mood the rest of the day. His life wasn't so bad anymore. He had someone to spend time with when his former Housemates were out of town, or too busy leading their own lives. He almost enjoyed his job, in no small part because he got to see Potter, who sometimes slipped up and gave him a rather affectionate smile that no one else seemed to think went beyond casual friendship. There no longer seemed to be a black rain cloud following him around wherever he went.

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if it was because of what he and Potter had, or because he had decided to take Potter's advice about luck being what you make of it. Hadn't he, at one time, decided that if he spent enough time around Potter, some of that luck would rub off? Perhaps he hadn't been wrong in thinking that way. He looked up from his desk. "Potter?"

"Yes, Malfoy?" Potter's eyes didn't stray from the file he was thumbing through, and Draco saw all of the notes jotted randomly and sighed internally. Yet something else for him to do in the morning.

"I was wondering if you'd like to get a bite to eat later."

"I've already eaten lunch today. But thanks."

Draco took a deep breath. "Not lunch. Dinner. After work."

Potter's dextrous fingers stopped moving through the papers, and he looked up sharply. "Dinner? Tonight? Are you sure?"

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Draco wondered how quickly he could back-pedal. "I mean, you don't have to, of course. I know we never do dinner, and you probably have other plans."

"No, I don't. Yes, Malfoy. I'll meet you for dinner. Just name a time and place."

He hadn't thought this far ahead. None of their regular lunchtime haunts seemed right for what he was thinking. "Do you like Italian?" he managed after a moment. "We could do Antonio's, at seven." That gave him time to shower and change into something without cat hair on it. And maybe get a grip on the way his insides were fluttering about. They felt strangely similar to the way they had the second time Potter had kissed him.

"Antonio's is fine. I'll see you then."

"Good." Draco walked stiffly away to the other side of the office, busying himself with mundane tasks that no one else seemed willing to do. He was afraid to be near Potter just now, worried that if he thought about it too hard, he'd change his mind. It was still possible.

0—0—0

Potter strolled into the restaurant at seven o'clock sharp. Draco had been sitting nervously at their table for nearly thirty minutes, trying to steady himself with slow sips of ice water. It wasn't working. He needed something stronger.

"Malfoy," Potter said with a small smile as he sat. He frowned at the two goblets in front of him, as if they were a test he was ill-prepared for.

Draco watched Potter's reaction, waiting to see which goblet he'd pick up. They were a test, of sorts. One held simply ice water, the other a mellow Merlot. He hadn't forgotten what Potter had said the night of the World Cup, about the wine and champagne. "You don't have to test them," Draco said softly. "No poisons, no Veritaserum. I promise."

Potter laughed. "If you're certain." He still didn't pick up a glass, and Draco tried not to pout. "It's odd being out to dinner with you. It's not the same routine, you know?"

With a nervous smile, Draco nodded. "I know. But I wanted to talk about something a little out of the ordinary."

"Oh? What's that?"

"Remember what we talked about that night in the café in Italy?"

"About your string of bad luck?"

"Yes. That." Potter gestured for him to go on, still frowning at his drink options. "Well, it seems my luck has changed recently."

A smile crossed Potter's face, the friendly but not overly-familiar once he used when they were in the Auror office together. "I'm glad to hear you think so."

"I wonder…" Draco took a deep breath, unsure how to continue. "Do you feel any differently about your own?

He received a shrug in response. "It is what it is. Why?"

Better to just do it quickly, like ripping a plaster off all at once. "Well, as I've realised how much I actually enjoy my life lately, I've realised I've fallen for you. What we've been doing has been nice, but I want more. If that comes at the price of my job, then so be it. I want more than this casual arrangement." The vision he'd had this morning of the two of them having a romantic, candlelit dinner rose to the front of his mind, and he shut his eyes tight against it. "Harry, what I want is you."

There was no immediate reply, and Draco wondered if his bad luck had stuck around to watch him make a fool of himself. After a moment, Potter cleared his throat, and Draco dared to open his eyes.

"Well, what do you know?" Potter said with a slow smile, picking up the goblet of wine. "Looks like my luck's turned around, too."


End file.
